* * *
At ten past three,I’m standing on the Wild Eagle Lodge’s main dock, trying not to itch. I’m at the end of a long line of staff, all dressed in matching polo shirts and down vests. At least I was allowed to wear my own boots. It was the only thing that had passed muster when I arrived.
This is not a fishing lodge. Fishing lodges smell of mice, mold, and stale beer. They sleep ten if you didn’t mind sharing the floor with someone else or sleeping in the top bunk of a rickety bed that’s older than you are. In comparison, this place is a plastic Alaskan theme park catering to the rich, famous, and bored.
“Who do you think it is?” Marci whispers. She bounces on her toes, making the mirrored sunglasses perched on her forehead wink in the sunlight. The sunglasses are also part of our official uniform. Oakleys. I looked them up online. A new pair costs more than a month’s worth of groceries.
“No idea.”
In the distance, a single prop plane hums, and like she’d been waiting for it, Harper appears in the lodge door.
“Showtime!” She claps her hands and we snap to attention. “I don’t need to remind you that this first impression will set the tone for the rest of our very important VIP’s stay. And that you’ve all signed NDAs, so not a word about anything for the duration of his time with us.”
As if we could forget the NDAs.
“I feel like we’re at Downton Abbey,” Marci says.
“Is that another hotel?” I ask.
She glances at me like I’ve grown another head. “You don’t knowDownton Abbey?”
Whatever. I slide my sunglasses into place so she can’t see me roll my eyes. Humiliating. People who stay somewhere like this don’t need a fishing guide. They want someone to do the fishing for them while they take photos and ask if it really is dark all the time in the winter. And do I own a dogsled? And is it true that the polar bears are all homeless now thanks to global warming?
The floatplane appears over the west side of the cove, circles once, and lands smoothly.
Marci practically vibrates next to me. “Maybe it’s a movie star. I heard Diego Pascal came up to the Royal Alaskan Resort last summer. My girlfriend is a housekeeper there. She said someone was on call to bring him fresh pillows twenty-four hours a day.”
I grunt in reply. First off, I have no idea who Diego Pascal is. Secondly, what a life. Imagine a pillow valet just for him. It’s ridiculous.
The plane’s engine cuts as it lines up with the dock. Everything falls quiet like the whole world is waiting for what comes next. Even the gulls and crows hold their breaths.
A dark head wearing darker sunglasses appears first. His hair is shaved on the sides, longer on the top and squashed at a weird angle, like the body underneath it was asleep until very recently... or maybe it had been squished against the top of the plane’s cabin, because as the rest of the man attached to it emerges, it isn’t that he climbs down the ladder so much as he extends one endlessly long leg down to the pontoon below, then finishes unfolding his frame as he steps onto the dock. A few staff members offer him a hand across, but he ignores them, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his heavy parka, which is too warm for this time of year. He doesn’t take his glasses off or acknowledge the people in front of him at all.
A bodyguard? I’ve never actually seen a bodyguard in the flesh, but this guy has that don’t-fuck-with-me look that I would expect. He also has a jawline that could be used as an anchor in a pinch.
Not that I’m paying attention to that kind of thing. It’s not the Wild Eagle Way. We are here to serve and make every experience exceptional. We don’t get to have an opinion about our guests’ appearances.
“Oh my God.” Marci has her hands to her mouth, and her eyes are wide.
Even before the next person exits the plane, their voice is audible. “And you wouldn’t even believe me if I told you where we were. The plane? It was like a toy! So tiny! And noisy, which is why I couldn’t call sooner.”
“It’s him!” Marci squeals.
A flurry of color erupts through the door like a tropical bird crash-landing somewhere it has no business being. This new man is small, thin, and clad in a screamingly pink shirt. His conversation cuts off midsentence with a shriek, and he flails wildly, missing the first step of the ladder. Harper and her guest services staff are on it though and manage to get him onto the dock before he or the phone in his hand can hit the water.
“I’m fine. Fine. But everything is wobbly.” He bounces his knees up and down, making the dock sway under him. He giggles. “Or else it’s the mimosas they served on the way to Anchorage. But Ivy!” He steps away from the plane, and the tall, silent man falls in behind him. “You should see this place. It’s like Hannah Montana without the Hannah.” His pink shirt is printed with beach balls, and his pressed baby blue pants don’t quite reach his ankles. Did he not pack a jacket?
He keeps talking into his phone, the rubber soles of his green deck shoes smacking against the boards as he goes. “And did I tell you about the guy on the plane? Lord, that flight attendant had the best ass when he pushed that drink cart by me. Those uniform pants are usually a disgrace, but that boy knew how to work it!”
His giant bodyguard shadow follows silently, and they disappear inside the hulking shape of the lodge with Harper trailing after.
“Can you believe it?” Marci nudges me. “He’s even better-looking in person.”
“Sure.” Honestly, I don’t see what the fuss is about. Mr. Cellphone isn’t my type at least. He obviously takes care of his appearance, but with the money someone like that has, he could afford to do it. He definitely doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would have any interest in fishing though. So I get two weeks to lie around and earn some money on the off chance our guest feels like a boat ride.
As jobs go, this one is humiliating, but at least it’ll be easy.
